


Perfect

by Blake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fighting-like-sex, M/M, Pain is good, Vignettes, fucked up Wincest lovin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:50:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it almost feels like a healthy thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect

Dean’s hands shake as they stitch him up, inadequate. Crawl with wanting to fix it. Suck out the poison with his fingertips, palm the cut until it’s smooth again, never happened. Hands hover over Sam’s shoulders, bunched up tight and high like the muscles are sore. Dean can see the kink in his neck like seeing the stomachache in Sammy’s curled up, wince-shaped body when he ate too many Skittles but didn’t want Dad to know there was something he could be chided for. Dean knows to give Sammy a wink and a glass of water when his stomach hurts, but his hand hovers over the built up mound of Sam’s tensed shoulder.

Needs Sam around, and needs Sam safe, and has never been sure which of those is more important, because they feel like the same thing. Always. Most of the time. Right now, when Dean puts his hand on Sam’s shoulder and rubs a little pressure into it. But it’s not enough, this small nudge against a wall of soreness. There’s so much of it. A huge mass of hurt tissue that’s there because some fucking werewolf took them on a wild and acrobatic goose chase. It’s there because the world is full of monsters. It’s there because Dean wasn’t able to get to the bastard before it sent Sam accelerating into a brick wall with an impact that Dean can still hear.

Dean’s arms shake. It’s not the fatigue of arms on the wheel eight hours to leave three states behind. Not the strain of pushing too hard into his brother’s shoulders. His arms are shaking because he’s holding back, he realizes, and once he realizes it it’s too late to stop. He digs his fingers into the hardened flesh of Sam’s muscles like it’s something he’s meant to tear apart. Sam hisses, stiffens. Dean pulls back, holds back. He’s shaking again, only now there’s so much _holding back_ that it seems there’s equal parts _wanting_ , and that scares the shit out of Dean and now he’s shaking from fear, too. Shaking through Sam’s _What the fuck, dude_ , and the only way to keep his own hands from flying apart is to sink them into Sam’s skin again and put enough pressure to break.

Touching Sam, touching him all over, touching him because he wants to, because it feels like it will do something. There’s resistance, elbows, the tenseness of confusion, and then it’s just like they’re teenagers wrestling except Dean wants something. It’s just like they’re teenagers wrestling except Sam’s teeth are sinking deep into Dean’s bicep, and it feels so much like what Dean wants that he sighs.

~~~

Dean’s hands shake because Sam is a fucking idiot almost got himself killed what were you thinking you asshole and the Impala’s got a new scratch and you _weren’t_ thinking, can’t afford to not think. Sam won’t admit his fault, has been pissy-bickering to everything Dean’s said for the last half hour on the way to the hotel. And when Dean’s opening the door Sam apologizes, rolling is eyes, for scratching the car, and it’s so fucking far from the point that Dean slams the door behind them and slams his fist square into Sam’s jaw.

He tries to use advantage and momentum to push Sam against the wall and wail on him, but Sam recovers too quick, has Dean’s shirt in his fists and his feet barely tracing the floor and his eyes burning frustration and his jaw tense like he’s grinding his teeth that Dean wants to bite apart.

Throwing his body against Sam’s is like punching a brick wall, like doing something that has no effect except the stinging of scraped skin and bruised knuckles and hollow-aching bones. No effect except being slapped down on the bed, pushed onto his stomach, arm locked behind him and Sam’s thick thigh spreading his legs at the source, pressing the crotch of his own jeans against him. Dean sighs, struggles, can’t get up from under Sam’s weight, except he can, because he knows big-brother tricks like squeezing Sam’s leg between his own and forcing it straight so Sam lurches forward, losing his balance and Dean can kick and roll him over onto his back and sit on him.

Dean’s immense frustration is in his fist, which doesn’t make it to Sam’s brick wall because Sam’s hand grabs his wrist, wrapping almost all the way around, squeezes. Sam’s other hand squeezes, curled around Dean’s hipbone, trying to break, all frustration. Dean’s one free hand tries to push through Sam’s ribcage, rub his skin apart or at least his shirt, but as Sam tightens his grips and puts Dean flat on his back, Dean’s free hand goes to Sam’s jaw, which he forces close enough that he can bite Sam’s lips apart. Bruise-kissing, a fist hitting a fist.

~~~

Dean sinks his teeth into Sam’s shoulder so hard that his jaw starts to shake with the effort. He doesn’t let go.

It starts out with wanting to taste him, fuck him, smell him, feel him, sometimes. Sometimes it almost feels a healthy thing, wanting to fuck his brother, like it’s just another way Dean gets to have sex. He’ll kiss Sam like it’s a routine they have, and Sam always kisses back the same way, takes his cues from Dean. Then Dean’ll get his teeth inch-deep in Sam’s skin, and every thought of sex flies right out the window, and he’ll realize he was deluding himself, pretending he wanted anything other than to hurt Sam perfect.  
Dean can hurt him better than the monsters can. Dean can hurt him better than he hurts him when he doesn’t mean to. Dean can hurt him so good he can’t remember the feeling of anything that isn’t right here, right now, just Dean. Dean can’t keep Sam from getting hurt, tried for years and years, failed for years and years, each of those failures another scar on both of them. Can’t stop the pain, but he can control it.  
Thoughts of control, but Dean feels so out of control, all thrusts and grabbing and holding down irrational places and trying to break things he loves. Presses Sam down into the mattress, only so he’ll fight back that much harder.

The more bruises, the better.

Dean’s being ripped apart by Sam, too, which makes his throat fill with want because at least this hurt is mutual, consensual, almost perfect because they both want something, want it. Dean’s insane hands fly to Sam’s throat and squeeze, takes both hands to wrap around the whole thing, thumbs trapping his windpipe like they could pop it. Dean keeps waiting, expecting Sam to look scared and push Dean away like he’s a freak, a horrible selfish bastard, unwanted. He’s surprised, when he realizes Sam’s looking at him like he trusts him absolutely, when he realizes that trust is something he wants to break. It’s Dean who gets scared first. Lets go of Sam’s throat, hands shaking, gets shoved onto his stomach with Sam’s hand digging hard into his spine with ragged breaths falling from somewhere above that. Dean twists his ass into the air so Sam can pull his jeans down and fuck him until it hurts until it feels perfect.

~~~

Dean’s fingernails take shavings of Sam’s skin as he comes, feeling the muscles in Sam’s side flexing against his palm, tasting his blood, their blood, cooling in his mouth.

Sam comes, panting, filling him up and his come is Dean’s blood and his orgasm stings.

Dean lets himself float. Lets himself be weighed down by the throbbing in his arm, back, jaw, lip, ass, rib, lower back, wrist, everywhere fucking Sam hurt him. It weighs him down a lot, almost to sleep, which is why the more bruises, the better. Dean’s not a floating kind of guy. It’s either sleep, or self-recrimination. Stinging, sinking, hearing Sam’s mourning-dove wheezes on the other side of the bed, Dean only has room to think how he’s made Sam feel better, taught Sam a lesson, made Sam forget the pain of his shit-luck life. Doesn’t have to think about if it’s bad that they’re about to fall asleep and their legs are still touching. Doesn’t have to think about why he wants to be his brother’s pain. Doesn’t have to think about how he wants Sam to be his. Nights like this, it doesn’t matter.

They hurt each other perfect.


End file.
